


there's nothing for me but the dying

by forestdivinity (ForestDivinity)



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity
Summary: You make mountains from molehills, Reginald had always been fond of telling him, you let your fear control you, instead of controlling it. You crave attention; you leave yourself deranged for want of it-The thing was, he wasn’t exactly wrong.-Another Klaus character study, pre-canon.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Reginald Hargreeves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	there's nothing for me but the dying

_You make mountains from molehills_ , Reginald had always been fond of telling him, _you let your fear control you, instead of controlling it. You crave attention; you leave yourself deranged for want of it-_  
  
The thing was, he wasn’t exactly wrong.   
  
Something inside of him was an ache, a great yawning mouth that throbbed like it was teething at all times. It was hungry and all it wanted was to feed, to consume, to fill that emptiness with the tender meat of the world around him. Maybe it was the death of small things inside of him, he was rotting in all the places people couldn’t see.  
  
All his life, Klaus had flirted with dangerous situations in an attempt to fill that void. Around him was reality, always twisting. It was a volatile thing, split across two realms.  
  
Or he was the distortion, body snapped around an emptiness, trying to exist in life and death at once. Humans weren’t meant for such things, and it terrified him. He had to choose one or the other.

And so the danger-

It was fights with his father that would end with a crack around the ear that always left his head spinning. There wasn’t pain, or there was pain, but it simply melded with the ache of his being, that rot beneath his skin. More impactful than the pain was the touch, the blood beneath Reginald’s fingers, the heat of his hand. Life.  
  
And then it was the mausoleum, the cold that seeped into his bones, the hollowness of his body mirroring the emptiness of the room; at least until it was full of spectres, visages of the undead, drawn like moths to a flame. Or one of those sparkling, electric lights, the same blue as the glow of his powers, the cracked lava lamp of his body. Some metaphor, some dream. They flocked to him, all ice and incorporeality. That was Death.

Somewhere between the two, Klaus began to know other dangers. The heat of MDMA and the cold of a comedown (life, death, repeat, start again. It was all cyclical; he was the cycle, something never ending) the touch of a body, the concrete of an alley. He flirted with men and women alike, anyone who caught his eye. Anyone who offered a bump or a hit. 

Danger successfully courted and all that.

* * *

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Ben moaned at him. It was a familiar complaint, barely a question at the point they were at now. 

“Don’t kid yourself into thinking I have an answer.” Klaus told him, waving his GOODBYE hand in his brother’s direction. Something in his soul ached. Maybe not his soul - did he even have one of those? Was he alive enough? Was he human enough? Maybe it was just his body that ached, that old familiar thing. Rot split open his veins, it flooded through him with every beat of his heart.

What was even the point of that thing? It worked overtime and Klaus didn’t even want it.

“You must have a reason-”

“Oh, you know darling Benny. Benerino. Ghost of my life-” people were looking at him funny now, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, “I’m here for a good time, not a long time and all that.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Klaus.” 

“Drop dead, Benzo. Oh, wait-” He was tetchy, somewhere between the high and the comedown. Ben had been tetchy since he’d died and realised he was stuck with the one brother he’d never been closest to.

Screw him. Screw all the ghosts. Klaus had better things to focus on, even if Ben was the only thing haunting him now, it didn’t mean he wanted to stay sober. _Addictive personality_ , he’d been told once, _no drive to help himself_. Then again, that doctor had also thought him schizophrenic.

Klaus couldn’t really prove him wrong. Maybe his father had listened to the ramblings of a psychotic child and decided he must be seeing ghosts. Who knew what he should believe anymore, all Klaus wanted was the high. It was the floating that he craved, that heat that flooded his body, the freedom from the expectations of his own mind. Maybe he’d been fucked up since birth, always pushing for more, always looking for danger.

_Trauma response, CPTSD, suicidal ideation_ , another rehab center had written on a chart after three mandatory weeks of group therapy. His fingers had itched then, even though it had been a relatively nice place. Clean, smelling faintly of antiseptic - one Allison had clearly paid for.

He’d only seen two ghosts in his time there, neither one of them screamers. They terrified him nonetheless. Klaus was always terrified: of himself, of the world, of the living and the dead. When sober he remembered his father’s hand, the sound of it cracking against his head. Ouch, what a bastard he’d been. Thinking about Reginald always made his cravings worse.   
  
It was hard not to think about Reginald when he was sober. The man lingered in his mind like a bad smell. Klaus wanted to claw at the soft underside of his belly, imagined opening up the fragile skin there and letting all his rotten organs spill out onto the dirt. The thought gave him nightmares for weeks.   
  
_You’re making a mountain out of a molehill again_ , a voice echoed in his mind., somehow he couldn’t tell if it was his father’s or his own.   
  
“I really think you can do it this time.” Ben told him on the day before they were let out of rehab. His support was nice, if obviously fake, they’d been through this dance enough times. They both knew Klaus wasn’t the type to get better.

Addictive personality. Attention seeker.

“Nah.” He said. Ben sighed, a low, haunted sound. Like a ghost! 

* * *

“You’re gonna kill yourself one of these days!” Diego seethes from across the hospital room, it’s a wonder the nice nurse from before hadn’t kicked him out yet. She’d been blonde, like their mother, and brought him jello with a wink like she wasn’t meant to be spoiling him.

Klaus had liked her. 

“Pish.” He waved his hands at his brother - brothers, Ben was standing there too with a frown. “Lighten up, it was only one measly overdose.” 

“Fuck you, Klaus! Your h-heart stopped, it took two minutes to revive you-” 

“Impressive timing. Down to the wire there. Gotta admire our healthcare system- oh wait.” Klaus rolled his eyes. Diego’s teeth were grit, above his scar Klaus could see the little vein on his forehead threatening to pop like bubblegum. Inside of him, something ached and snapped. The emptiness was brittle, stale, like it had been left for too long.

“I can’t keep fucking doing this.” Diego sounded angry, but that wasn’t unusual. Strangely, there was a pleading to his face, like if he gave Klaus big enough puppy dog eyes then Klaus would get down on his knees and promise to never do drugs again.

Yeah, right. 

“Then don’t, I’m not keeping you here Diego-” 

“You’re such an ass! You really don’t care about anything other than your habit-” Also untrue. Harder to say though, Klaus thought of street corners and vomit and club lights. Danger, flirted with. 

Couldn’t Diego see he was already dead, dying, dried out in the worst of ways? Existing in two places was exhausting. Sometimes all he wanted to do was sleep. 

Klaus closed his eyes. 

Danger, danger, danger, it rang like a klaxon in his head. His ears rang like someone had smacked him. He could practically hear his father’s disappointment - or maybe that was just Diego scoffing.

“Don’t contact me again unless you’re clean, Klaus. I’m not gonna sit here and watch you die.”

“Sure, whatever. I’ll see you at the funeral then, hm?” There was a crash and a stomp and a few hissed swear words. Klaus didn’t bother to open his eyes - it was easier to hide his tears that way. Not to mention he didn’t have to see Ben’s disappointed look or the otherwise empty room. 

* * *

Another month of rehab was ordered by the court, probably only because his daddy was rich and Klaus was still somewhat famous, despite the homelessness and the drug addiction. Childhood fame had its perks, as did the lawyer kept on standby for their family. Reginald wouldn’t rent him an apartment, but so far he’d kept Klaus out of jail - he wasn’t sure whether to be happy about that or not.

Eventually he settled on not.

It wasn’t as nice as his last one. Klaus saw a ghost with her wrists split, thought of the danger of a knife, and then thought of his brother. 

His stay got extended another month. The lack of drugs was disappointing, but the attention was fun - in the same way that bee stings and casts were fun for about five minutes until the novelty wore off. God, was he bored. 

_-drive yourself deranged for want of it_ , echoes, echoes. Klaus thought of his father often and wished he had a drink or a pill to drown them out. At night they locked him into his room, restraints and all due to the word _suicidal_ in his file, and he had screaming nightmares of the mausoleum, that cool, deadly place.

He needed to get out; he realised. Before, rehab had just been a pain. Something to endure between bouts of danger and death. Klaus bounced between his highs and lows and occasionally thought of killing himself in how most people thought of buying coffee when they were broke. It was hard to take the impulse seriously when he knew (had always known) that he was born halfway to his grave already.

You couldn’t kill something that was already alive.

Now, though, something had snapped. Maybe it was the loss of his brother. Maybe it was the soft leather restraints that they’d clasped around his wrists (as if he hadn’t been trained to escape cuffs when he was eight, as if he wasn’t a child ~~soldier~~ superhero).

“You’re okay, Klaus. You’re not there, you need to calm down-” Ben was telling him. Klaus realised he was crying - screaming again, maybe. Something was cracking, and the sound echoed around the room, like it wasn’t just inside him this time. And then he had a dull realisation that it might be his wrist. That was fine, fun even.

More danger. More pain. God, was he acquainted with it by now, the rot inside of him was going to slip out if he wasn’t careful. Klaus was going to slip out too, right out of this godawful place and out of reality too if he was lucky. He needed a hit.

He’d do just about anything for it.

Surprisingly, no-one had noticed his yelling. Then again, this rehab facility wasn’t as nice as the last one. The one before that? They had all begun to blur together, Klaus didn’t remember what number he was on now. _Addictive personality_ , he remembered, _letting your fear control you._

Fuck it, maybe they were right about him - who even cared any longer.

“Klaus, come on, don’t do this- at least get some shoes, Klaus-” Ben was talking, his voice felt very far away. Klaus removed the bars on his window without really knowing how - training had made escaping places instinctive at this point. Klaus hadn’t used the skills since he was fourteen and had gotten kidnapped on a mission but, well, it was like riding a bike! That was how the saying went, wasn’t it?

He didn’t know. He’d never leant to ride a bike.

And then he was outside in the snow, and it was still so, so cold. He realised he wasn’t wearing shoes, socks. Not even a coat. Still, he’d gotten by on worse before, hadn’t he? Another danger to dance around. Only. this time, there was no Diego to fetch him. Fine. It was fine.

* * *

The ghosts were somewhat easier to deal with for once, while he slowly froze under the foundations of some cracking bridge. It was winter again, like it was every year. Weirdly, Klaus always felt more alive as everything around him rotten and died. 

Well, usually he did. Now he just felt cold and exhausted and on the brink of death. Ben had convinced him to find clothes. He had a pair of boots two sizes too big and a thick fur coat on over his blue gown. Inside of his shoes, his toes curled and went numb - Klaus hoped they didn’t fall off. Sure, he was rotten inside, but he’d rather not be rotting outside too.

If he went to the hospital, they’d just send him back to rehab (or worse). 

Everything hurt from the inside out. The cold made his vision swim. Around him was the familiar stench of mildew and wet earth, like he’d been born and crafted from mud. Sure, it was probably the sludge that had once been a river, but that didn’t mean he liked it. 

Maybe it was Christmas already? Klaus hoped it was, he hadn’t been very good but hopefully Santa didn’t mind - the bastard had a few decades worth of presents to make up.

“I’ll take a bottle of vodka and a bag of cocaine, if you’re out there fat man.” He muttered, hands shoved up under his armpits. It did little to warm them up - for as long as he could remember his hands had been cold.

_Poor circulation, dear, don’t forget your gloves_ , his mother had told him, but Klaus knew better. He was dead and rotten on the inside, and corpses didn’t get to be warm.

“I can’t believe you’re still thinking about drugs-” Ben hissed, as if he had to be quiet. It was ridiculous, Ben was a ghost, and he still insisted on whispering at times, as if anyone but Klaus could hear him.

“Drowns out the ghosties, Benny boy!” Usually, Klaus would throw his arms out to emphasise his point, but he’s a little focused on making sure his fingers don’t fall off.

Useful things, fingers.

“I’m the only one here!” Ben huffs and looks around pointedly.

“Exactly.” 

“God, you need serious help. The drugs aren’t some magic medicine, Klaus, you’re just an addict.” Ben’s voice was a sneer. It’s funny, they’d had never gotten along in life and they’re only doing a fraction better in death. 

Death, because they’re both dead. Klaus is just a bit alive too. Maybe. Some days it’s hard to tell.

He shoots a glare at Ben. It does very little. Inside him the void aches, it wants to take and take and fill itself up on anything it can get. Ben should understand that better than anyone else but Ben is dead and Ben was always too similar to him and Klaus understands, he’s always been too much-

_-mountain out of a molehill_ the voice inside of him reminds and Klaus snaps again. 

He’s lost count of how many times he’s snapped in his life. Sometimes it feels like all he ever does is break.

“An addict who’s tired of hearing your voice!” He hisses. Ben recoils back and stomps off to the other side of the river where he sits and ignores Klaus for the rest of the night.

Well, Klaus assumes it’s the rest of the night.

He passes out after their fight and can’t remember if it was minutes or hours between the silence and the darkness. There’s a blissfulness to being unconscious, but when he wakes up the void is hungry as ever.

* * *

That’s the cycle, after all. He fucks up; he does something dangerous, skirts between life and death, has a fun time of it all and then fucks up again. Life, death. Living, dying. 

Klaus is an _addictive personality_ stuck somewhere between worlds. Sometimes he wants to blame the cycle for his problems, but he thinks the addiction is just what he’s like on the inside. Nature versus nurture and all that shit.

Maybe its nature versus nature. Himself against his powers. Life against death. God, he hates the contrariness of it all; it makes him want to vomit. Klaus picks himself up, wraps his coat around himself, and wanders towards a shelter he knows gives out free clothes. 

In his body there is a beat playing out, it sings _drugs drugs drugs_ , it sings _attention seeker_ , it sings _addict_ , it sings _deranged with want_ , it sings _complex post traumatic stress disorder,_ it sings _mountains_ and _molehills_ and _suicidal tendencies_. 

Through it all there is the ringing of a hand against his ear and the chill of old stones against his back. Klaus whistles a tune as he goes. 

Everything is absolutely fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and Kudos if you like!! You can follow me on [@ashayathyla2](https://ashayathyla2.tumblr.com/) or join my [Discord](https://discord.gg/NCxhZY9) for TUA discussions!


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